Find prolonged moments of silence, in order to review your own lives

Pope Benedict XVI: "Dear brothers and sisters, I urge you to find in this Lenten Season prolonged moments of silence, possibly in retreat, in order to review your own lives in the light of the loving plan of the heavenly Father."

Angelus: Second Sunday of Lent, 8 March

Bishop Richard Gagnon's homily

(1st Sunday of Lent, St. Andrew's Cathedral, Victoria BC)

Rainbow as announcement of God's mercy: Even if man falls into sin, God
will not destroy the earth. Christ fulfills this covenant.

Harrowing of Hell: purgatory. Another sign of mercy.

Baptism more than ritual: a sacrament of mercy, through which we are
saved. Also a gift of holiness, as it unites us to God. Also, a task to
live in a way befitting this gift.

Temptation is especially strong in times of holiness, such as the Lenten
season. We must persevere.

Father Benoit's advice in the confessional

Realize the love and forgiveness of Christ.

Spread the joy of Christ.

Confession

Went to Confession today, and Father Benoit ended with, "God bless you,
and be happy." Will do!

Instiki 0.10.2 Export Markup patch

If anyone is using Instiki 0.10.2 and wants the Export Markup (Textile) link to work, make the following changes to the source code:

/app/controllers/application.rb
Insert "options[:stream] = false" at line 66:

    options[:type] ||= (FILE_TYPES[File.extname(file)] || 'application/octet-stream')
    options[:stream] = false
    super(file, options)

/app/controllers/wiki_controller.rb
Insert "require 'zip/zip'" at line 4:

require 'parsedate'
require 'zip/zip'

class WikiController < ApplicationController

How does one live well?

How does one live well?
Or what makes a day well lived?
Is it to eat well, drink well, and be glad?
To pray in a silent room?
To build sandcastles beneath blue skies?
To create?

How does one live well if one were shut up in a cell with no food?
No materials, no books, no light
Just hunger, and thoughts, and pain,
philosophy, religion, contemplation,
emotion, meditation, and confusion?

What makes a day well lived?
Or is it better to consider a week?
Or a month, or a year, or a lifetime?
Is it better not to consider it at all,
but to live haphazardly, from one inclination to the next,
going by feel, gut, recollection,
remonstrance, rebuke, appetite?

On what can we ground our living?
On what motto, creed, or ideal?
Shall poetry lead us, or some ancient script,
a philosopher from Greece or Rome,
a symphony, a painting, an epitaph?
Shall we lose ourselves in language or in study,
in literature, physics, studying the cosmos?
Will we find our salvation in the order and reason of mathematics?

How does one live well?
Or what makes a day well lived?
Is it to eat well, drink well, and be glad?
To pray in a silent room?
To build sandcastles beneath blue skies?
To create?

Obedience Is Freedom

The rules of religion are, paradoxically, a source of freedom. Without rules and traditions, every day would be similar to the others. I would be working as hard and as late on Sunday as I do on the other days. Day blurs into day, and week into week.

But when authority tells me that I not only shouldn't work on Sunday but that I must not, that this day is to be devoted to study and prayer and family, that this or that day is to celebrate this saint or that doctrine, then I am free to do these things. When I am commanded to go to church on a holy day of obligation, then I am freed up to go to church even in the middle of a hectic workday. Life has so many pressing commitments that a command from authority is needed to open up spaces for prayer and celebration. In this way, obedience (to the church) is freedom (from the world).

It is also freedom from self. Were I to be deprived of the guidance of Scripture and church teachings, deprived of the traditions of holy days and of the Mass - in short, if I were to have no guidance as to how to spend my time or choose my actions - what would life be like? Surely it would be a constant, frenetic chasing of one pleasure after another, never satisfied, always empty and exhausted. But with the constraints and wisdom of an ancient faith, and the spiritual nourishment of Holy Mass each Sunday, life becomes ordered, resilient, festive, joyful, whole.

Perfectionism

Like most people, I have high standards for my work and, in some things, certain ways of doing things that I consider to be the Best Way. But in a team, I must accept that other people may have ideas that are equally valid, or ideas that may be deficient in some respects but good enough. But of course, if someone is veering off course, or doing shoddy work, or could benefit from a sugestion, I'll offer my advice.

There is a balance between perfection and good enough, and between strictness and tolerance - between consistency and flexibility, dogmatism and freedom. And they are not necessarily mutually exclusive - one enhances the other, or close observance of one makes the other acceptable. Obviously if things are going too far one way or the other, one must pull back.

So it's a matter of good judgement - making the right call at the right time. I tend toward the strict side of things, and I need to be conscious of when to let up, of when it is more appropriate to be flexible.

"many look forward to a genuine and total emancipation of humanity wrought solely by human effort"

"Thinking they have found serenity in an interpretation of reality everywhere proposed these days, many look forward to a genuine and total emancipation of humanity wrought solely by human effort; they are convinced that the future rule of man over the earth will satisfy every desire of his heart. Nor are there lacking men who despair of any meaning to life and praise the boldness of those who think that human existence is devoid of any inherent significance and strive to confer a total meaning on it by their own ingenuity alone."

- Pope Paul VI, Gaudium et Spes

On Western Modern Culture

"Again and again we encounter the signs of an alternative civilization
to that built on Christ as "cornerstone" - a civilization which, even if
not explicitly atheist, is at least positivistic and agnostic, since it
is built upon the principle of thinking and acting as if God did not
exist. This approach can easily be recognized in the modern so-called
scientific, or rather scientistic, mentality, and it can be recognized
in literature, especially the mass media. To live as if God did not
exist means to live outside the parameters of good and evil, outside the
context of values derived from God. It is claimed that man himself can
decide what is good or bad. And this program is widely promoted in all
sorts of ways."

- Pope John Paul II, "Memory and Identity"

High

Today, feeling in high spirits. Read some poetry. Felt inspired. Built something. There definitely seems to be a cycle between highs and lows. Curiously, both are times when poetry is read easily: during the highs, one can revel in the playfulness of the poets; during the lows, one seeks solace in the searchings of the poets. And strangely, at either end I wouldn't have it any other way: I love the confidence and creativity that accompanies the highs; I love the brutal honesty and reality and ability-to-perceive-the-world-as-it-is of the lows.

But for today, I'm carried through the day by good feelings.

Promise to myself: endeavour to get enough sleep each night. It is a
simple practice that yields great benefits; failure to do so results in
unneeded misery.

The Four Last Things

"He who meditates on the Four Last Things, namely, death, judgment, and
the eternity of hell and paradise, will not fall into sin."

- St. Alphonsus de Liguori, The Rule of Life, I.2, circa 1767

"Worldly people call illnesses misfortunes, but the saints call them visitations of God and favors."

Worldly people call illnesses misfortunes, but the saints call them visitations of God and favors. When we are ill we ought certainly to take remedies in order to be cured, but we should always be resigned to whatever God disposes.

– St. Alphonsus De Liguori

Question of Emphasis

Sunday 10:07pm. It's often a question of emphasis, shading. Weight this aspect of life slightly more, or that. And choosing which wisdom to consume. Eventually it all settles down, an equilibrium of judgement, homeostatic philosophy. Stage lights on, and you act.

Lift, light

Lift, light, rise, spring, burst
I am nothing, I die.

Lift, glow, arise, renew, reveal
I am nothing, I die.

Sky, fir, cone, phase, flight
I am nothing, I die.

Wheat, wist, leaf, tone, meal
I am nothing, I die.

May the Lord grant us a restful night,
and a peaceful death.

Today I took a break from work

Today I took a break from work, after an intense week. Today is the Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time on the Church calendar. I want to treat Sunday differently from the other days, focused on God. This is his day, and ours as well – a day to rest.

I went to mass this morning at St. Andrew's Cathedral. Afterwards, I took my mother out to lunch at Subway, where we enjoyed foot-long toasted Subway Clubs. Back at home, I listened to some talks given by the Pope. Took a half-hour nap. Sang a hymn, and prayed part of the Liturgy of the Hours for the Fourth Sunday. And now it's 4:20pm.

So far, the day has been a rejuvenating change from the norm.

"From this follows the obligation of the cessation from work and labor on Sundays

"From this follows the obligation of the cessation from work and labor on Sundays and certain holy days. The rest from labor is not to be understood as mere giving way to idleness; much less must it be an occasion for spending money and for vicious indulgence, as many would have it to be; but it should be rest from labor, hallowed by religion."

– Leo XIII, Rerum Novarum, 41

"We look to you for our stable hope"

"We look to you for our stable hope in a constantly changing world."

– Psalm-Prayer, Wednesday, Week II, Liturgy of the Hours

The truth is to be found not within

The truth is to be found not within. Nor in the past, nor in literature, nor in art. Not in childhood, not in knowledge, not in dreams. Nor the body, the mind, the heart. The time is short. The truth is found where it has always been found in every age.

Thomas Dubay quote

"The more we are at the beck and call of others, the more we sacrifice
ourselves for their sakes, the more we are conformed to the Splendor of
the Father who chose to live among us as our ransom and our servant."
- Thomas Dubay

C.S. Lewis quote

Found this insightful quote in C.S. Lewis's Mere Christianity:

"That is why the Christian is in a different position from other people
who are trying to be good. They hope, by being good, to please God if
there is one; or - if they think there is not - at least they hope to
deserve approval from good men. But the Christian thinks any good he
does comes from the Christ-life inside him. He does not think God will
love us because we are good, but that God will make us good because He
loves us..."

Scattered

Scattered thoughts, and a cool breeze to cool the perspiring neck. Cacophony of branches and roots; tangle of stalks and grasses. Leaning backwards, leaning in, seeking the cool shade. The bee flits from dry leaf to dry leaf, finding no relief.

Weary mind, weary soul, smell of burning wood. And little popping sounds about, and slow-walking people, and resonant bass notes from a faraway drum. Strong, pungent air, smell of stiff stalks, scent of wheat. Smell of sky and leaf, of cloud and twig, birdsong and thunder.

Wild song of a dying bird, ecstatic in its dying. Wild gaze of a hunter sighting his prey, heart arrhythmically pounding, the gaze that sees not, the mind from which reason is absent, the animal impulse that will not be sated. Against the sun, the skin of the neck

Burns.

Traveller

For the weary traveller, there are few things better than sitting in a massive, airy room with a view of the open sky. The crowd tries to make a din, but the noise is subsumed by the empty space, resulting in a quiet peace. Here you observe spent mothers, arms draped over the backs of their chairs, watching over their children. And men wearing hats, talking into their hands, talking of synchronicity.

Time. We're running out of time! Peer up, into the sky, through the water and into the sunlight. Weary limbs fall. Weary couples struggle to sit down, tripping on their luggage, dipping fish into mayonnaise while reading books. Strangers sit down together, make an uncomfortable silence, push a cup of coffee on a table of granite and wood.

The joyful businesswoman is frozen in a state of running, and the dreamer looks up at the clouds, aware of the silence, aware of the buzzing, and seeing conversations flowing soundlessly: words, words, transient words, floating into nothingness. Talk, talk, constant chatter, noise disappearing into the vacuous ephemeral, information quantized into bits, a beautiful woman in a rush to wait, stares, gestures, glances,

Waits.

Dusk

Dusk, when the air is thick, and families turn off their car alarms and step inside, readying themselves for the journey home. The evening hour, hour of police sirens and horns, hour of the gradient sky, mauve into turquoise into aquamarine. Dusk: one pinprick star in a pastel, muted universe, one lonely lamp on an aluminum foil balcony, round and round the sleepy turnabout they go.

Sometimes one needs to look away

Sometimes one needs to look away from the digital devices, away from the strobing, pulsating L.E.D.s and L.C.D.s, peer through the air into real streets and real trees, listen to real sounds and real cricket noises.

From the bars on this last evening of the weekend come yells, screams, and cheers, the cries of freedom railing against the dawn of Monday.

Nobody looks up. Nobody peers into the sky, except for the cosmologists, and even they have stopped looking. Nobody looks for the stars, for there are no stars to be seen, and the moon is obscured by the trees.

A crack in the sidewalk, a fissure, a gulf, darting of the eyes, words whispered in a foreign tongue, the buzzing of a moped, the smooth gliding of airplane lights across the night sky - these all say, Be safe,

Be safe.

Sun

This is one of those days when the sun is shining and families sit contentedly enjoying their meals quietly together. Old men loll to their tables, speaking in hoarse voices; students cross the street in brown corduroys. And running - always running - running with sideburns, speaking of pork chops, walking slowly and gesturing and gazing.

The Mercedes of Palo Alto are especially fine, and thoughts come easy to those at ease. With the sunlight comes a shimmery happiness, an ecstatic goosepimple upon the back, the rush of mathematic, out come the sunglasses, a raised eyebrow, a nod of the head,

Food.

Flu and fever

I am sitting at a table in a diner called The Creamery in Palo Alto, California, waiting for my order of scrambled eggs with toast and hash browns. I'm trying to take it easy today, as I came down with the flu yesterday. I'm battling it with a combination of Cold-FX and Extra-Strength Tylenol.

Being sick is a miserable way to be. To all who are healthy: cherish your healthiness! Revel in it, exult in it! Remember it, for it will not always be in your possession.

I simply had to go outside. Staying in my hotel room was getting to be toxic. I believe this is what is called "cabin fever." I pity those who are confined in prisons. Having no change in scenery is a kind of visual toxicity, an imagistic stagnation. It leads to madness in those with weak wills.

An hour to kill before bedtime

I am at present sitting at a bus stop on Hamilton Ave and Ramona St in Palo Alto, California, a thousand miles from home, at 10:10 PM on July 22, 2007. There's an hour to kill before bedtime, so I thought I'd write. Behind me, three young men and a young woman speak Chinese. They laugh at something in the shop window of University Art Center. Another group passes behind me, talking of "maybe just traveling, something like that." The same hopes, the same needs, the same amusements, a thousand miles from home.

There is something great about writing, in public or private. It is a kind of listening, to your thoughts, to voices around you, to the sounds of machines and of nature. It's a listening with your eyes and with your gut, a probing into the why of things. More voices behind me. "I'm numbing the pain." "Yeah, asshole." "You messed up."

Here you see headlights, and people holding hands, vague talk, a bit of singing, the stench of rotting fruit, a plastic cap kicked in the darkness, someone whistling C# D C, then all of a sudden, silence.

A day well lived

I want to try living each day as a separate project. Because each day is its own independent universe, with a beginning and an end, and a constellation of appointments and goals and plans complete and incomplete. Isolated by sleep, each 24-hour block of time is its own separate entity, its own array of conflict and harmony.

And so I want to live each day as a separate project, a polished gem, a production performance from curtain rise to curtain call - beginning the day with the morning routine, then living the day, pushing forward through it with strength and mental acuity, or bearing the weight of suffering or loss with equanimity - then ending the day with the evening routine, with no loose ends, finishing the day with the dignity of a day well lived.

Each day an independent performance piece, brilliantly executed or experienced - those would be days well lived.